


Strange Epiphanies

by Carbon65



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken, Rent (2005), Rent - Larson
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Related, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Epiphany, F/F, F/M, Holidays, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 14:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17327111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbon65/pseuds/Carbon65
Summary: The rules are simple.Your gift should have a monetary value of between $5 and $20.It may be a regift, however, for the sake of friendship and feelings, it may not be a re-gift of something given by someone in attendance tonight. We don't want a repeat of the nerf battle of 2015.No live animals, no dead animals, ... just no animals, peopleOr, that one time I tried to throw a post-holiday cross over party.





	Strange Epiphanies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pennysparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennysparrow/gifts).



They mostly celebrate after the fact. It’s a problem with the way things are set up. R - who accidentally organized the first one at the Mayor’s Daughter and started the whole damn tradition - calls them Holiday Decompression Parties. Racer, Jojo, and Courf - who, if not practicing, were at least indoctrinated into Catholicism early - call it an Epiphany party. There are other names: belated new years; the last party before the semester starts; party in general. Whatever you call it (Holiday Decompression Party), they’re a way to compare notes, to bitch (good naturedly or frustratedly, depending on your situation) about your relatives, and to just be together. Plus, it involved one of Grantaire’s favorite traditions ever, the post-holiday white elephant.

They have it at the Mayor’s Daughter. Because Tradition. …Also, because it’s centrally located and has excellent (and cheap) options for all the dietary needs in their group. Which, admittedly, the Musain also has. However, unlike the Musain, no one at the Mayor’s Daughter cares if you dance on the tables. Which is a vast improvement over other people’s favorite bars, which generally frown on that sort of thing. ("Except your barre," Joly had once pointed out. "Your barre would rather you dance on it than eat off of it." R had rolled her eyes and agreed. Joly is the best kind of shit and she loves him so much.) 

It’s only a day out, and R and her "organizing committee" are working hard to sweet talk Mr. Grace into hosting them. Again. Mr. Grace really doesn’t have an issue with them dancing on the tables, he’s already agreed to that as long as they sign waiver saying they’re not going to sue. The thing he has an issue with is the white elephant. Possibly because last year, Enjolras had shown up with a fully cooked turkey (which apparently he’d smoked himself, and oh God, the thought of Enjolras in the kitchen still makes R a little bit wet, because… AHHH.) Or because of Finch’s rat, Patrick. Patrick had ended up going home with Al, she thinks. (Finch has like, a quintet of roommates, and, to be honest, R isn’t as good at keeping them straight as she should be.)

"We put that in the rules this year," David Jacobs insists, holding up a print out of their email. "Right here. ‘Due to previous incidents, we remind you the rules for this year’s white elephant party. Gifts must have a retail value of less than $20’--"

"Which excludes turkeys," Les Jacobs, David’s younger brother adds, helpfully.

Mr. Grace might be rolling his eyes. Maybe. Do real adultsTM roll their eyes?

"‘May not be immediately edible,’" David continues, "And may not include live animals. Living organisms from other kingdoms of life must be reviewed by party organizers.’"

Mr. Grace's eyes are definitely rolling.

"‘Anyone who fails to comply will be kicked out this year. Guys, we mean it. Please email R  or Davey with any questions,’" David finishes.

Mr Grace throws his hands up. "Fine," he huffs.

R presses the money they 100% totally did not "borrow" from the triumvirate and Katherine (okay, and Jehan, Joly, her parents, Joanne, Cosette’s dad, and Benny’s ex-ex-wife) into Mr. Grace’s hands. "I trust that should do it?" 

Mr. Grace looks through the money and nods. "Yeah, that’ll do it."

R lets David read the paperwork before they sign it. After all, he’s the fancy law student. She’s there as moral support.

* * *

This is Katherine’s first Holiday Decompression Party, and she feels like she’s in over her head. Jack had invited her, one of those weird parts of their "we’re dating and we’re friend serious but maybe not family serious" thing. At some point, she will introduce Jack to her parents and her siblings. Its just that, now… now it’s all too complicated. So, they’ve spent most of the holidays apart while she was with her parents upstate and he was here, in the city, doing fun things with his friends.

Jack had called her last week to invite her, during that liminal space between Christmas and New Years. He’d been too excited that someone called R had granted him a plus one for this thing. Apparently being granted a plus one is tantamount to R’s blessing. Kath isn’t sure why she needed the blessing of a letter, but apparently she does. He’d been excited, maybe too excited for what he was trying to do.

Jack had tried to explain the party, and its stages. Katherine survived the cocktail hour and socializing part of the party close to Jack’s side. She wasn’t sure if that was for her benefit or for his. Jack is surrounded with the pack of semi-feral kids he grew up around. He hasn’t been terribly forthcoming on what life was like before college, but she knows that these kids were part of it. Still, they seem to come at her like a wall. There are a wall of boysterous, half-recoganized boys and girls who flow past her. David Jacobs she knows, of course, because he’s Jack’s roommate and part of the reason they were introduced. She and David were paired up to work on a group project for their intro to philosophy class where the other members evaporated into some sort of ether, leaving the two of them together.

David’s twin is there, too. Sarah grins and Katherine, and bounds over to give her a hug. "Have you had something to drink?" she asks, prying Kath away from Jack.

Katherine shakes her head.

"Good," Sarah pulls her toward the punch bowl, past where Blink and Mush are talking to an older (lesbian?) couple Katherine doesn’t recognize. The woman on the right is butch as hell and drop dead gorgeous in her class three piece suit. And then, she turns her head so Kath sees her in profile, and holy hell, it’s Joanne Jefferson. Katherine has been quietly following her career with the ACLU, and secretly wanting to meet her. How the fuck is it that Jack’s weird, "We do this thing after Christmas and New Years to get together and finish out the end of holiday cookies and so Race can wear a crown" thing turn into a chance to meet Joanne Jefferson?

She turns to Sarah to tug on her sleeve and whisper something, but they’re intercepted by the most unlikely looking pair of women Kath thinks she’s ever met. The girl on the right is pretty in a sort of china doll way. She’s got soft, subtle, but artful make-up and a clearly tailored, if not custom made top that somehow evokes an earlier time. The neoclassical period, Kath thinks. She’s somehow rocking an empire waist without looking pregnant. Which might be an uncharitable thought, but is also a constant problem. The other girl - who introduces herself as Ponine - is jagged in appearance and attitude. Her overly large leather jacket is worn thin in too many places and her clothes have faded from harsh washing. Her smile is feral.

They chat, long enough for Kath to determine that Ponine and Cosette are… something unclear to each other and that Sarah met Eponine through their respective younger brothers. At which point, the pair of boys careen through the guests, shrieking about something and Poinine and Sarah take off.

"So, are you one of the wise women?" Cosette asks, casually.

"The… what?" Katherine asks.

"The wise women," Cosette repeats. "This year, R is doing wise women. Because, I guess, last year’s Worst Christmas Pageant ever offended someone as being too long and too religious."

Katherine feels like it would be overkill to repeat her question. And, anyway, it doesn’t matter because Cosette introduces her to someone else whose name might actually be his name and might just be what he’s drinking tonight.

* * *

Like everything he does, Mark has mixed feelings about holidays and decompression. Don’t get him wrong, there’s plenty to decompress from after his holiday. His mom is still trying to figure out why he’s single and on a mission to set him up with every girl in town. Especially the Jewish ones. (And even though he’s over 40, he can’t quite find the courage to admit to his mom that he might be ace. It’s a word he’d not heard used so much before he met these kids. And, maybe it’s an identity that fits?) 

It’s just that Christmas is Hard. It’s so fucking hard. They met Angel at Christmas more than twenty years ago. And… and… and how do you not associate this holiday with that anymore? They lost Mimi just after New Years. And, how does he just let that go? How does he ignore the irony that if they’d held on just a bit longer, just a few months longer, they could have been saved. They probably would have lived.

The holidays with their lights and their santa suits and their cheap vodka and their parties bring on these feelings deep inside him, like a dark tunnel he can’t crawl out of. And yet, here he is at one more holiday party thrown by a bunch of starry-eyed kids. And seriously, how old were these kids when Angel died? Five? Ten? Fifteen? How many of them weren’t born yet.

He’d once asked Enjolras - who struck him as a de-facto leader - what he remembered from 1996. Enjolras had shrugged, and said "Didn’t Bob Dole run for president?" And, the worst part is, Mark can’t even be mad, because that’s just how old Enjolras was in 1995 and 1996, and it’s not fair to demand that a 10 year old remember the worst, and the best, year of his life the way he does.   
Based on that, he’s not actually sure why he’s here. Other than because it a spectacular turn of fate, Roger decided a few years ago that  _ he _ needed to get out. And then dragged him here.

So, Mark is sitting in the corner while the rest of his friends go out and socialize with the kids who are here. He takes another long drink of the vodka he’s drinking. Because maybe if he drinks a little bit more, he’ll be able to get through this without crying.

R - Rene? Maybe? Claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. It doesn’t work. So, R climbs on a table in front of the two boys who are sitting together comparing notes about canes.

"Ladies, Gentlemen and those who have yet to make up their minds," Her voice echoes through the crowded room, breaking through the conversation without amplification. Roger stops playing, but the short, muscular super well dressed guy on drums plays a sarcastic cymbal.

"Thanks, Rel," she calls. He salutes.

"Anyway, kids, it’s time for the entertainment. So, up first, we have… drumroll please…"

Rel apologizes with a gradually increasing drumroll. He’s older than Mark originally thought. He probably remembers 1996 for more than just Yoyos and Bob Dole.

"The ever popular white elephant!" R cries, flinging her arms out, dramatically. "Now, before we get started, I’m going to invite my partner in crime, Davey, up here, to go over the rules."

R helps a gangly, bashful kid who’s maybe half Mark’s age up onto the table. He clears his throat, and then looks around. "So, umm, guys, I want to remind you of the rules this year. Everyone who is playing should have brought a wrapped package, unlabeled package and placed it under the ceremonial festivus pole."

"It’s that culturally insensitive?" Someone calls. "Having a festivus pole so late in the season, I mean?"

"Shut up, Seinfeld," Someone - Mark thinks it might be Collins - calls back.

"If you brought a package, you were supposed to pick up a ticket from the table. We’re going on the honor system, guys, so if you didn’t pick up a ticket, you don’t get a package. Yeah?" 

There’s a series of muttered yeahs.

"When they come out, the three wise women will give directions for the game. You will pay attention and follow their directions for exchange." Davey looks around the room with a steely-eyed gaze. "You will follow the directions," he repeats. Mark imagines him as a substitute teacher. It kinda works.

"You should have all received the rules for the gift in the planning email Enjolras so helpfully sent out," David continues. "And in the google document describing the event. But, for those of you who forgot, R and I will go over them quickly." 

"First," R calls, "your gift should have a monetary value of between $5 and $20."

"Is my body worth between $5 and $20?" Someone shouts.

David ignores the question. "Second, it may be a regift, however, for the sake of friendship and feelings, it may not be a re-gift of something given by someone in attendance tonight."

"Unless it was intended as a joke gift to be re-gifted," one of the kids down front calls. "I betcha someone regifts that NSYNC poster again this year."

There are a few chuckles, and a scuffle and the kid that takes a minute or two to calm down.

"Third, No live animals." R’s voice carries. "Or dead animals. You know what friends, we are not having a repeat of last year. No animals!"

"Also," someone adds helpfully, "No corrosives, oxidizers, flammables, or acids."

"Or bees."

Mark can’t help himself. He starts to chuckle. Being here reminds him so painfully of that night at the Life Cafe, and he can’t help himself.

"If anyone wishes to go pull their gift out quietly, they may do so now." David calls.

There’s a shuffle, and they go back to whatever they were doing before.

Mark takes another long drink of his mostly vodka-tonic. He glances up when a red-headed kid with a long braid and a pair of unironic black velveteen overalls slides in beside him. "Can I sit here?"

Jean Prouvaire is weirdly quiet, as he listens to Mark pour his problems out.

* * *

Musichetta isn’t going to lie, she’s a wee bit nervous, now. Chetta didn’t grow up religious. At least not this brand of non-religious religion. It tastes sort of like Faygo Cola. She, the stunningly gorgeous Maureen Johnson who cannot actually be a decade older than Musichetta, and a lanky girl called Smalls are getting dressed in the employee break room as… she’s not actually sure. It’s all R’s fault. Well… it’s mostly R’s fault. She’d agreed, but R had roped her into it.

R had flopped down on the couch one day last week during one of those blissful periods when they were both off work during the hellish period between Thanksgiving and Christmas and started wallowing. R wallowing is rarely a good sign in Musichetta’s book. Its not a good sign in anyone’s book. R usually wallows when she’s in the middle of flirting with something unattainable - boy, girl, intangible idea, or when she’s been talking to her dad, or when she’s feeling lost. R won’t admit it, but Chetta can tell that she spends a lot of the holiday season feeling lost. And, Chetta’s a good friend. Which is why she’s in the employee break room changing into a probably Grantaire explicable outfit of high-waisted jeans, a sequin bralette and a pink a flannel shirt. Oh, and one of Bossuet’s snapbacks. Also a big plastic bag of doubtless R explicable diapers. Because R.

The worst part is that Musichetta was at last year’s party, where her roommate fell more deeply in love with Enjolras over his smoked turkey and Tom Collins did a dramatic reading of a children’s book from the 1960s and Bossuet’s friend, Tony, hauled in a fully cooked ham. Again, because Grantaire. Who likes to pretend she doesn’t care at all. And then organizes shit like this so she won’t have to be alone, and everyone will have at least one good holiday-related memory.

Chetta’s family doesn’t really do Christmas, and while they’re happy to have her home for a couple of weeks, her mom and grandma would rather have her home for Eid. They still sort of do Christmas. In like, the, "we live in a cold place and damn it, we need a celebration to keep us from going crazy during the 3 months of the year where the sun basically goes AWOL" sense. But, it’s mostly hot chocolate, and regular chocolate, and socks because Grandma’s major conclusion from the Harry Potter books is that wise people want new socks in the middle of December. Also her Grandma’s obsession with chocolate oranges.

Still, Musichetta follows instructions and Maureen’s leather clad backside out of the break room. A man standing on the front table is intoning something she can’t quite catch. Her hearing aids aren’t great at filtering this kind of noise. And, while the lights are bright enough to make lip reading possible, it’s still not easy. She rounds the corner, and looks up toward Collin’s face.

And then, she spots R signing beside him. Musichetta is again...  less than familiar with the whole story, but after being exposed to the Christmas story since she was in the cradle, she’s pretty sure that there were never the "three wise bitches" that R just signed about involved. Nevertheless, she holds out her package and says her lines when Smalls kicks her ankle. And, R stands up there, signing the whole thing.

_Three wise women would have asked for directions, shown up on time, helped deliver the baby, protested at the innkeeper until he let them sleep in the inn, cleaned the stable, and brought practical gifts._

Someone heckles, and R tries to translate, but Joly’s hands are quicker. Did they really just say, _And then there would be peas on earth?_ Knowing Joly and Bossuet... 

R’s dramatic ass shoots her a look, dismissing her, and she tries to fade back into the crowd where she can watch Collin’s lips and R’s signs.

And then, she waits for her number to be called.

* * *

Joanne is staring at the package in her hands. The small, rectangular package in her hands. She kind of hopes its a dildo. Even a joke dildo. She thinks Maureen had gotten her new girl toy one for Christmas. She and Maureen are on-again-off-again, still, and it makes her a little bit crazy. They could have gotten married five years ago, and they didn’t. Instead, they’re here, where Maureen’s mascara is streaky and she’s wearing those goddamn leather pants again, because Maureen hasn’t gained a pound in the last 24 years, because Maureen sold her decisive capacities to the devil in exchange for a perfect ass.

Her number was drawn first, and she’d pulled what she thought she wanted. It was soft and floppy and probably some kind of awesome t-shirt. She recognized Mark’s shittastic wrapping job. They’re about the same size, and he has a far better t-shirt collection than she ever let herself have. In the 90s, it was important to her to dress well, so people would take her seriously. Now she’s a bit more grown up… who the fuck cares?

Then, some punk kid had done the thing punk kids everywhere are want to do, and stolen the package. She’s had to re-pick four times, and she kept returning to that T-shirt. Until it had been stolen one too many times, and was out of her hands for good. She glares at the teenager who picked it up. He’s a spunky kid. He’s also a little fucking thief.

Unwrapping the gifts is almost more fun than picking them out. They climb up on the big table in threes, and tear into the paper while the audience whoops and hollers. Some gifts elicit more cries than others. The kid named Jacky boy gets a set of bandanas, which sets off the audience into priapisms of laughter.

Her t-shirt thief holds up the shirt that is definitely from Mark in wonder. And, yeah, Joanne is kind of mad. It’s a faded black t with a pink triangle. "Silence = Death". And, it’s her fucking size, too. The kid grins, and pulls it on over his head, and scrambles down. And then, Joanne sees Mark pull him aside, and sit him down, and start to talk.  
Maybe it won’t be so bad, after all. Mark is a moody bastard at these things, but he’s also the kind of moody bastard who wants people to know where this stuff comes from. Where they come from. Because if they know, maybe they’ll understand that some of their victories were won in blood and bodies.

Joanne’s turn is almost last. She’s sitting up there, sandwiched between a kid with yellow forearm crutches and the right leg of his jeans pinned up, and a blond boy who is almost too pretty to be real.

The blond opens his package first, turning pink as he holds up… a bright red vibrator. And a jump drive, which is labeled, PATRIOTIC FRENCH SONGS, in sharpie.

On the other side, the kid is smiling and laughing and he pulls out what are apparently... underwear for your hands? Joanne is not sure she’ll ever understand kids. She’s happy to play the weird Aunt at home if this is what twenty-somethings like.

And then, finally, it’s her turn. She still has high hopes for the dildo. Such high hopes. Maybe with a flash drive of protests songs. That would be awesome. Except, inside the box is… a bag of gummy bears. And, as she moves things around, she discovers a set of print outs from Amazon, proclaiming the virtues of sugar free gummy bears and their laxative effects. She particularly likes the one calling them "Satan’s little assholes." At least they’re useful. Maybe not as useful as other things, but at least they’re useful.

* * *

David circles the party, picking up discarded wrapping paper, checking on the groups in the corners, and making sure that no one unintentionally falls off the tables. Tom Collins is leading the dancing, belting out songs from the 80s and 90s. He’s old enough that David is pretty sure he doesn’t need to worry about Collins breaking a hip, does he? The man has gone mostly grey. He’s only, what? 45? Maybe? God, David’s dad is ten years older, and he looks so much younger than Collins. David wonders, but doesn’t dare to ask, why. He’s afraid of what the answer might be. And, it doesn’t matter, because Collins dances, anyway.

Mark Cohen is leading some sort of weird discussion that seems to involve Les and Eponine’s brother, Gav, Boots, and a few of the younger, and not so young kids. He's holding the black T-shirt that Gav got, and telling them a story, low, and ernst. It’s the first time tonight that David has seen either of the sugar buzzed kids sitting still. He drifts toward them, but as he hears the words, he’s not sure its a story he wants to hear tonight. There’s so much weight in the world right now, and he needs to step back. Tomorrow, he’ll worry about how his mom’s going to get paid and when things will start again. Tomorrow he’ll worry about how the world is falling apart. Tonight, he made it through the holidays, they all made it through the holidays, and he’s enjoying himself.

R comes over, and grins at him. "I think this years party was the best, yet." She says, brightly, as she takes a big drink of whatever is in her glass and fiddles with the piece of pink K tape around her thumb. "No live animals!"

A glance at Mr. Grace, and David shrugs. "I feel like we’re going to have to ban dildos next year."

"Maybe," Grantaire concedes, "but the mannequin hand was super creepy. If we’re banning shit, I think disembodied parts have to be off the table as well. I mean, they kinda are, because we’ve convinced Joly his old leg has no retail value, but still…"

David laughs, and pulls the hand out of his back pocket so he can wrap it around Grantaire’s shoulder.

"Maybe," he concedes. "But that’s a problem for future Rene and future David."

"Amen to that," R agrees, clinking her glass against his mostly empty beer bottle. "And, Happy New Year."

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt,
>
>> I may or may not have put off packing by watching rent and then rereading the wonderful rent/newsies/les mis crossover you did for me from this summer and I realize you’re a busy human but I was wondering if you had any more thoughts on it.
> 
> This may not be what you intended, but here you are...
> 
> * * *
> 
> I feel like I should also mention that all white elephant gifts are real, and that Ive got a half finished something somewhere which is about 1000 words of Grantaire freaking out about Enjolras' ability to roast a turkey. Which I really need to finish someday. 
> 
> Anyway, happy Epiphany!


End file.
